


Under the Bludgeonings of Chance

by thoughtsinplaces



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, I just realized I named their child Jake fucking Blake, also hella angst, i am a cruel capricious god, the rhyming torture this child will endure during his adolescent years will be severe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsinplaces/pseuds/thoughtsinplaces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We have a son,” Clarke says.</p><p>            “You are so brave,” Bellamy says, kissing Clarke on the head. He beams down at the new life created. “What should we name him? Bellamy Jr?” He jokes, tracing his fingers softly down the child’s small head.</p><p>            “Jake,” Clarke says, “after my father.”<br/>--</p><p>Based off a bellarke prompt from my http://kingofthedelinquents.tumblr.com/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Bludgeonings of Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Under the bludgeonings of chance  
> My head is bloody, but unbowed.
> 
> Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
> Looms but the horror of the shade,  
> And yet the menace of the years  
> Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
> 
> \- "Invictus", William Ernest Henley

            “Just a little farther,” Bellamy says.

             One arm is clamped around Clarke’s waist, trying to support the uneven weight jutting from her hips. His other hand clasping her arm as they shuffle up the side towards the remains of the Mount Weather quarantine facility.

             “I cant,” Clarke cries out. She doubles over, clutches herself. Her breathing is labored and accented with grunts of pain.

             “We still have a little time, I’ve done this before,” Bellamy yells. Even though they’re face to face, drenched by the rain he feels like they’ve never been further apart. “I’ve done this before.” He repeats this more to himself than anything.

             They reach the storm drain, Bellamy drags Clarke along trying to block out her growing cries. She is in agony and it was his doing and now here he is leading her into the deepest darkest hell imaginable. Bellamy swore he would never return to the Mt. Weather quarantine facility, not after what had happened—not after everything he had lost here. It would seem that there was no choice now.

             The lights flicker, dimmed from age and baring the marks of the battle that commenced in these halls months ago. Clarke stumbled behind him, slamming into a wall before sliding down. Tears getting lost in the soft, wet waves already on her face.

             “Bellamy, _I’m scared_ ,” she says, her voice shaking.

             “You can do this,” He replies, “You’re a survivor Clarke.”

             It’s not as simple as it once was to pick her up, not that he has had much practice in the past, but with her now rounded belly and his wounded leg, he really wasn’t used to the weight. He’s able to make it into one of the medical rooms but the bed is turned on its side and riddled with bullet holes—a last ditch effort for defense. He checks around and there are no decaying bodies, just abandoned weapons and a sense of defeat. He tries to move the bed, but it’s no use, it is already rusted apart in some areas.

             “Alright, come on Princess,” He says, “We’re just going to have to make do.” 

             Bellamy pulls off his pack, resettling around his gear. Pulling out blankets and a canteens of sterile water; he begins setting up.

            “I thought you promised to stop c-calling me t-that,” Clarke says gritting her teeth, riding out a wave of pain.

             Bellamy rounds on her, she is braced against the wall, and unstable; ready to collapse and he takes her into his arms forcing her to look up into him.

            “Never.”

            His words hold more meaning and she nods before crying out and buckling into his arms, he moves her over towards the broken bed, helping her to lie down.

            “I think it’s t-time,” Clarke screams. Her hand grips his, the other trying to support herself leaning back against the bed.

            “You have to push,” Bellamy says. Clarkes rocks her head from side to side, trying to hold on to one last piece of denial. That she isn’t really here.

            “Clarke, Push!”

            Bellamy holds onto her tight as she pushes and screams, restless in his grip. He cries with her, out of anger at this injustice. Her knees are bunched up beneath her dress and his heart keeps skipping beats as he waits. He is reminded of such a similar scene, years ago when he was small and his mother screamed and cried and all he could do was watch and cry as well. Now not much has changed, he just sits watching once again as everything he touches turns to ash.

            “The blanket,” Clarke chokes out.

            Bellamy grabs for it as Clarke pushes one last time and then there is nothing but silence. Bellamy reaches for the child, pulling it out beneath the cloth, wiping it’s face off and turning it towards the brightest point of light.

            “Why isn’t it crying?” Clarke screams frantically, her panic clear. “Is it breathing?”

            Bellamy’s hands are a shaking jumbled mess of supporting the head and heartbeat jumping around. He can’t think clear, he can’t let this child die. 

            “Clear it’s air way, it could be blocked,” Clark yells, but softer this time.

            Bellamy sticks his finger into the babes tiny mouth and wiggles it around, watching as it opens it’s eyes confused at the new intruder. It then wrinkles it’s face letting out a high pitched wail.

            “It’s crying Clarke, it’s crying!” Bellamy says overjoyed. He gives it a good look, checking for injuries. “And it’s a boy.”

            He turns to see her slumped up against the bed exhausted. He does as practiced, taking the knife and cutting the cord before wrapping him up and scooting back over to put the child in Clarke’s arms.

            “You have a son,” Bellamy says softly, his world still rocked.

            “ _We_ have a son,” Clarke slurs.

            “You are so brave,” Bellamy says, kissing Clarke on the head beaming down at the new life created. “What should we name him? Bellamy Jr?” He jokes, tracing his fingers softly down the child’s small head.

            “Jake,” Clarke says struggling to get the word out. “After my father.”

            Clarke’s arms buckle and the baby slips down a little. Bellamy reach’s over, scooping him into his arms.

            “Why don’t you rest a bit while I get to know Jake?” Bellamy says, leaning close to see the bright blue eyes of his son.

            “Hey, Jake. You are going to be a warrior aren’t you?” He teases softly, his finger touching the lip of his newborn son. “You might have the eyes of your mother, but you got the brawn of your father don’t you?”

            He smiles, tucking his son closer to him as he leans back against the bed with Clarke. They had made it after all, this miracle he was holding in his hands was his new start, his second chance.

            “I’m never going to let you down,” Bellamy says, a promise to his son. “I’m always going to protect and love you. We’re survivors, all three of us. Aren’t we Clarke?”

            It’s the blood he notices first, it’s drifted into a pool, soaking the blankets and forming a puddle near his feet. His eyes follow the river back to the source, leading to between her legs.

            “ _Clarke?_ ”

            He knows. Deep down in his heart, before he even sees the blank open stare of her eyes, unseeing out into the world. The same eyes of their child. She’s left him here, alone in the world. He sits there for a moment, thinking how remarkable that the world is still continuing to exist when it so clearly is not for him. Until he hears a soft sound and looks down and notices that there is still something, so cruelly, anchoring him to this life.

            “Clarke.” He says, his words cracking, knowing there will be no answer. He reaches out with one hand and touches the limp body of the woman he loves. Colder now, still wet from the rain.

            He pictures in his mind for a moment a dark, but beautiful escape from this pain. A place where they all can be together again—all three of them. His hand itches, twitches, for a second towards his holster but then shames washes over him like an ocean. He wants to drown in it. Jakes lets out a scream, wrestles in his arms. As if he senses the despair. Not wanting his cold grip, but the care of his mother. Bellamy Blake cries, his weeps loudly and with the heaviest of hearts alongside his son.

            Bellamy Blake cries because he knows that today is not the day he dies for he is a survivor and he will live on for many years. He cries because he is human and capable of love, capable of pain. He cries for his son who will grow up without a mother. He cries for Clarke Griffin who lost her father and who will never know her son. But mostly… Bellamy Blake cries for the days that never were and he cries because he is so, so thankful for the days they had together.


End file.
